


Storm's End

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Knifeplay, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Occult, Rape/Non-con Elements, Ritual Public Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:37:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5928814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The land has changed in its time without a King, and so has what the people ask of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm's End

**Author's Note:**

> Title from song of the same name by [Dyssidia](http://dyssidia.bandcamp.com).  
> Written for Day 17 of the [lotr_advent](http://lotr-advent.livejournal.com) calendar 2015.

The land has changed in the time it has been without a King. Elessar had sensed it when he was there, when he was younger. It was indefinable then, when he was inexperienced, raw to the ways of this world; it weighs on him now, though, as if the air is heavy with something more than hope and expectation. It is as if the wind itself is charged, and each time it brushes his skin he feels a shock, like it is reminding him of something he can't quite recall he ever knew.

Even Boromir had known it, perhaps tried to tell him, but it wasn't something he could have understood before now. "Restore Gondor," he had always said, never 'save'. He spoke of the White City with love, but now his memories highlight the desperation there, behind his eyes, in his voice. Elessar hadn't seen it at the time, but he had also been tainted by the Ring, in his own way; he had rejected it, and been blind to all but resisting its temptation, even the needs of his kin and closest companions. That had been a small thing, though, easily contained and attributed. He could tell himself now that he had chosen his path in order to get away from the voice, and from the cloying, shadowy fingers in his dreams. This thing, whatever it is, feels part of the city itself; he has no quiet, and there is nowhere he feels at ease.

 

He can't name it, doesn't even dare try, until Ioreth comes to him, in secret, under cover of the darkest night he's seen since the War. She's hunched over herself when he sees her, waiting in his room. Arwen is there with her, clasping Ioreth's hands in her own in an attempt to give comfort where Elessar can already tell there is none. He sits so she does not stand, and waits.

"Without a King," she says, "the people... fell away." Her voice is hushed, as if she thinks people might hear, or as if the words are so important they weigh more than sound can easily carry and so they fall to the ground, dead as soon as they are spoken. "The Stewards have been making sacrifices, each Yule."

"In name only," Arwen asks, her voice light, too, but weighted by horror. Elessar studies her face, her skin pale in the moonlight, still slightly luminescent, but her eyes dark and wide and mortal.

"No," Ioreth says. "The late steward... he gave his wife."

Arwen gasps, but Elessar finds himself still, almost unnaturally. He cannot open his mouth, or move his hand to comfort either of the women. "And then, animals. He intended to give his sons, but..."

"Then nobody would succeed him," he finally says. "And I suppose I must find something as well."

"But you're the King!" Ioreth says. She pulls her hands to her chest, twisting her apron in her hands. For a moment Elessar sees in her the witch she could have become, if she had not held true. "You cannot, surely."

"The people must believe in me. Given time, perhaps, I can change their minds, but for now, they must see their King as one of them." He stands, finding movement as calming as the tree on his chest is to Ioreth, for she settles as she sees it at eye level. "They cannot understand the sacrifices we have already made." He raises a hand to still Arwen's words; she has given her life already, though it will not be known to the people, ignorant of the old ways as they have become. "We must give them one that they can."

Ioreth wipes a tear from her face as she curtseys, then she scurries from the room. She does not apologise; Elessar knows that Arwen understands, as he does. There is nothing that can be said.

"But what will you do?" Arwen says, later, when they are lying together, and even the moonlight has left the room, the sky as inky black as it had been before Elessar had found its last foothold.

"I will find a way," he says. He does not sleep; he does not want the answer to come in a dream, for he knows it already and cannot bear to see it in his mind before it comes, wrought by his own hand.

 

The day of Yule itself dawns with a bright sun, as if the land itself is welcoming Elessar's gift. The people have gathered in much the same way as they had for his coronation, for his wedding; he can see them from his rooms as he dresses, the ceremonial knife lying carefully unbound from its cloth as both a reminder and a taunt. Arwen had left before he rose, and he had let her go. 

There are things he cannot have her witness, and he knows this is not something she expected to see in her remaining years. 

He breaks his fast alone, accompanied by the rising hum of a chattering crowd below his windows. His hands shake as he eats, and the food tastes like ash and metal; he tells himself he needs his strength, but his stomach cannot hold enough for him to feel sated. It is empty when the guard, nameless and faceless, informs him through the door that they are ready for him.

"It has been done," he says.

Elessar finds his body heaving once more, though nothing comes out. He closes his eyes and wipes the napkin over his forehead, wetted from the water meant to clean his hands; the last kind gesture he will receive today, he is sure. The cool water drips over his eyes and runs down his cheeks, falling to stain his jerkin. 

He takes the knife and walks to the door. He does not look at his escort, dressed in ceremonial armour. All too clearly, he can see those same leather hands on pale, glowing skin, perhaps twisting a rope around slender wrists, or covering blue eyes with soft velvet.

 

Legolas is not laid out as he had imagined, though he had not been sure what to expect. Legolas always stood tall, defiance and wildness making him seem larger, more dangerous; Elessar expected to see that in him even as he was tethered to an altar, lifting his head in a greeting that was more of a challenge. Instead, Legolas refused to look at him, and his hands were chained to a pole, with barely enough slack for him to stand straight. His ankles were tethered as well, but with enough length that, Elessar's mind helpfully suggested, Legolas could be brought either to his knees or stretched out, his arms above his head, pulled tight like the string of a bow, ready to be fired. As always, he appears untouched by the dirt around him, though it clouds in the air as the crowd shuffles and stirs from the ground.

He is like an animal, newly caged, and Elessar sees in his eyes, wide and clouded, that Legolas does not understand why he is here; he has tried to retreat into himself, but has failed, brought back no doubt by the noise of the people around him and the feel of metal cutting into his skin, perhaps even by the sun on his bare skin. For, of course, the skies had cleared for this day, and Elessar's actions would be witnessed by the Valar.

_I am sorry,_ he whispers, sending his prayer to Eru as he approaches the pole. He does not ask for forgiveness, for he suspects there will be none, but for the Valar's understanding, for safe passage for Legolas once this is over. Silence falls behind him, as the people see him, and their expectations fall to his shoulders. They anticipate this with a keen sense of joy, of welcome excitement; he can feel it in the murmurs as they fade and the way the air acquires a charge not unlike the power of the Dead. 

"I am sorry," he says to Legolas. For a moment, Legolas looks at him willingly. There is nothing more to be said. The guard stands next to him, and Elessar, his arms curiously lightened of the burden he feels in his heart, unsheathes the knife. The guard takes the sheath away as Elessar raises the knife to the sky, where it glitters in the sun.

If this were an animal, if he were killing for food, he would bring the knife down and pierce the heart with a single strike. If he were in need of the skin, he would slice across the neck. It would be over quickly, and he would offer his thanks to the animal for its sacrifice. The animal would be still, already wounded, perhaps, or be a weakling, or an animal raised for it and so trusting as to comply from innocence. Legolas is none of these; the tip of the knife barely grazes him as he shifts away from the strike. Red droplets form across his white skin, small and uneven, and quick to disappear. There is a cheer from the crowd, and Elessar hesitates; he looks away from Legolas and finds himself looking into Ioreth's eyes. She is dressed no differently, but the air around her seems to shimmer, and for a moment he believes he is looking at Nienna, her eyes filled with tears.

He grabs Legolas by the hair, wresting him so that he can only be still or risk breaking his own neck, and drags the knife down his chest. This time, the wound does not close; it bleeds freely, as does the next, and the next, until Legolas cries out. It is a long, low howl, more akin to that of a wolf and nothing like Elessar has heard from Legolas before. Elessar looks down, then, away from Legolas' face, and he sees red. The dirt is a darkened brown, the dust tamped to mud as it mixed with the blood that runs from Legolas, a bright red that drains the glow from Legolas' skin. It is not enough; Elessar can feel the ground crying out. It trembles beneath his feet, and he feels unsteady even through his sturdiest boots. There is still more to give; it must be given.

With a wave of his hand, the guards pull Legolas away from him. They hold him still, stretched out just the way he had imagined when he approached; their hands on his ankles keep him from kicking out, though Elessar suspects the shivers are from exhaustion, rather than anger. Still, he waits for them to subside; he traces the knife over Legolas' back, unmarked as it is. He traces the muscles as they shift under the skin when Legolas braces himself on the chain and with each breath. Then, when Legolas is still, he traces them again; the red is brighter now, bright enough to catch the sun and glitter against the pale skin, white and tinged with blue. Elessar lays the muscles bare to the wind, and Legolas does not fight him, though he grows lax even in the sure grip of the guards. 

There is still more to give, though; the crowd are cheering now, the sound like a wave that is still rising, building ever on itself. Legolas is near spent; Elessar can feel his fëa flickering, as if he could reach in and cut it out, hold it aloft. Instead, though, the ground demands more than blood; the guards let Legolas go and he curls in on himself, kneeling with his head on his arms. His eyes have closed, and Elessar, in some small distant part of his own soul, is grateful for that as he too kneels, as he reaches down. He doesn't take off his gloves; he doesn't want to feel Legolas' skin on his own for this, though he remembers how it felt to give the same touch as comfort, back in that other world, the one before. It is faster if he does it this way; Legolas had always keened just so, and arched into his touch. He is silent, now, of course, but his body behaves as it always has, and finally, the sound crashes over them both and the echoes fade from inside his head. Pearlescent drops join the pool of blood beneath them; Legolas' body betrayed him, and the ground is quiet. Elessar drops the knife, and it is silent again.

 

Arwen is the one who helps him carry Legolas' body to his rooms, away from prying eyes even in the Houses of Healing, where all are supposed to find rest. She is the one who brings him water as he packs each line with dampened athelas, green inside red inside white as if Legolas was decorated in Yule garlands. She is the one who comforts him when Legolas' eyes do not open after nights and days of careful vigil.

 

She is the one to bear their child, and though she tells him that it is nothing but a coincidence, a blessing of their union from the Valar, he is the one who sees Nienna weeping in his dreams each night, and hears the voice of the land.

 

Legolas wakes only after the Yuletide festival is forgotten in favour of the harvest. The marks on his chest have not healed; they look as raw and open as they had the first time Elessar packed them and bound them, though now they peek from underneath a light tunic, as shadows beneath the thin fabric.

"I will keep my promise to you, Elessar, but no more," Legolas says, before he leaves, Arod bearing him away from the taunting voice that whispers _more_ whenever Elessar forgets to block it out. The next, and last, Elessar hears of him, Legolas is building a ship.


End file.
